Saturday, January 15, 2011

Chewy and Captain Hook

This is my dad.  Daddy.  Daddy-o.  Father.  And my most favorite; Chewy.

Growing up having a judge for a father got rather confusing.  He would go off to work and 4 kids were wondering why he would leave for work so late…as my mother kissed him goodbye on the cheek, my oldest sister asked where daddy was going.  My mother said contently, he has gone off to marry someone.  My oldest sibling, my then 7 year old  sister, who was leader of the pack; cried out “How dare dad do that to you, mom!” My mom laughed and couldn’t wait to tell my dad upon his return.

My dad is a happy guy who was all about business when it came to business and when he came home he took off his shoes and watched the news and ate his dinner and expect all four kids to be monk-like quiet for 30 minutes on Sundays and Tuesday nights while he watched Barney Miller and All in The Family.  If us kids, made a peep, no matter how small, he would threaten to throw our blankies in the fire or use his belt on us, stand up, and take the belt off so fast…us kids were petrified, trying to figure out why he would do that because we were just happy to hang out in the same room with him.  

Later, when we grew up and he would yell “I’ll get the strap!”  We would still freeze in terror even when we knew he would never use it.  It wasn’t necessarily him we were afraid of…we were afraid of the obsessive, ninja-like focus mother of ours. One in which we just called MOM.  She wouldn’t warn us.  When we acted out in public, just out of nowhere, she would pinch us hard on our fattest area of our arms.  OUCH!  We would of course, be stunned, then we would yell out “Why did you hurt me?!” Then begin to cry.  Of course then, people in the stores who had their own unsettling tots, would turn to look at who was the brave woman who would abuse their child in public and why weren’t they as brave.

As soon as we got home, there was a different story.  We would tear into the house and rush into our bedrooms and stomp, break, tear, write on whatever we could find.  We would get my sister’s Disco albums and break them while yelling “DISCO IS DEAD! DISCO IS DEAD!” Can you guess what year that was?  My mom, could have cared less.  I don’t think she liked the Bee-Gees much anyway. 

We grabbed first edition books that were handed to us generation after generation and write 39¢ & 49¢ you know, (because with a one penny tax, it will equal to round number.) We put up fliers, knocked on our friend’s doors and tell them we were getting rid of our stuff.  We had excited wide eyed, kids rushing to house anxiously awaiting to find out what treasures they were going to score with the change in their pockets.

When they found out that the ‘stuff’ was books and smashed up disco records; their excitement suddenly changed to sadness; which we found rather amusing.  Then we were puzzled as to why no one would buy a 1935 leather bound Mother Goose rhymes with exotic pictures.  And why no one would buy a 1936 teacher’s edition of a Dick and Jane primer book.  My mom still didn’t care.  As long as we were inside our rooms and not disturbing her as she scrubbed the floors the walls, the toilets, the kitchen, vacuumed the floor, the ceiling and the walls and still managed to cook a 3 course meal each and every night.
 This is was my mom.  Mommy.  Puddin’.  And my all time favorite; Captain Hook.

Thursday, December 16, 2010

This is how I write...and it works...until someone criticizes me.

I am a thinker.  Always  have been.  I remember sitting in class starring out the window, or the wall, or the floor...thinking.  When I got tired of thinking in the classroom I would pretend I was sick so I could lay down in the almost but not quite cozy, but comfortably cool cot in the nurse's office.  Guess what I did there, laying down in the almost but not quite darkness....think.

I was known as the girl who daydreamed.  I can't help it.  I had lots to think about.  For instance, I wanted to know who my future husband was going to look like.  What was he going to be like.  Was he going to be like my dad?  Stern, but yet funny.  Unexpected bathroom humor?  Or was he going to be like my friend's dad...kind hear-ted and  not funny.  Oh I hope not.   I understood what they meant when the daughter's find guys who are like their fathers.

I didn't think about too much about what my children were going to look like.  I took it one step at a time.  At age 6, thinking about the man I was going to end up with and living in my New York City penthouse, while getting spa treatments at the famous Elizabeth Arden's Red Door while being seated by no other; Mia Farrow.  So as you can see, I took my thinking, one step at a time.  

Did any of this happen?  Stay tuned to find out.  But here is a husband did end up in New York City on the 70th floor of a high rise apartment building.  And where did I end up?  Still searching...but not for a husband.  :)

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

So this is it?

I'm 38 years old, divorced....and have one child.  Thank god (HA 'HA HA' refers to what you would call an oxymoron, but we'll get to that later)  I have one child, it's hard to raise children, especially the Me Want Now generation in this economy.  That's me and my son.  He's cute isn't he?  Yeah yeah yeah, I know what you are going to say...."I hope his dad has blond hair." or "Does his dad have blond hair?"  I hear this all the time.  My answer?  Nope.  His dad is black.  I don't know what happened...oops.  
I don't care what people say.  Or what I say to people for all that matter.  I am me. and I love me.  If you don't like me, then you have a huge problem because I'm a lot of fun.  I am a great person to get to know. I am also a great person you would love to hate.  :)
I am jobless and educated.  I need to make money, but what I'm good at, is making a man feel secure and happy.  Cleaning, cooking, managing the house.  You could say I'm a displaced housewife.  But this day and age a displaced housewife gets you nowhere and nowhere fast.  I do keep in shape, love to work out. But see, I'm stuck.  Stuck in a tiny city in the middle of the country.  I have been told I don't belong here.  Which kind of hurts, because I'm here.  If not where?  Where do I belong?  I get along better with those from other cities...other countries.  That tells me something.   It tells me I don't belong here.
So this is about me and my son belonging.  Trying to fit in.  
Perhaps I should tell you my story and how we both got to this point.   It's a sad story and at the end of this sad story, you would say what most people say..."What a prick!"